At Least Mommy's Out

We’ve all known a mondegreen at one time or another.  Either we’ve come up with it ourselves or we’ve overheard a friend or relative singing one, probably at full-lung capacity.

You see, a mondegreen is the mishearing or misinterpretation of a phrase.  People do this all of the time with songs and often don’t figure out that they’ve been singing the wrong words for years.

I was recently reminded of mondegreens when I heard the infamous “Feliz Navidad” on the car radio.  Last Christmas our neighbors were driving in their van with Christmas music blaring. Their then seven-year-old, upon hearing the song, perked up in the back seat with an innocent question.   “Why do they keep singing ‘At least Mommy’s out’?”

That has now become Melissa and my theme song.

When I told her that I was writing about Olivia’s question about Feliz Navidad, she laughed, then—in usual fashion—made me laugh again.  “At least it’s not her 15-year-old brother’s version that goes ‘Pu-lease smell my butt.’”

That got me to thinking about what other people had misheard the song to say.  Come to find out, non-Spanish-speaking folk have been singing everything from “Denise la dee da” and “Please mop it up” to “Release Mother Duck” and “Feel snot I’ve got”. 

Surprisingly, most other mondegreens for this song had to do with police, dogs, or mommies.  “Police shot my dog,”  “Police nodded off,”  “Fleas…naughty dog,” and “Release mommy’s dog” are perfect examples.  

When you try all of these, be sure to use a Frito Bandito accent.  You’ll be surprised how well they work.

Next to Olivia’s rendition, my second favorite would have to be, “Let’s grease mommy up.”  Perhaps it’s because I’ve baked with enough Crisco in my day to make it a funny visual.

Which brings me to another point:  Why do so many mondegreens have to do with food?  Maybe there’s a correlation between being hungry and hearing lyrics wrong.

Some of you remember Crystal Gayle’s “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue.”  Foodies have been known to hear it as “Doughnuts Make My Brown Eyes Blue.”  Bachmann-Turner Overdrives “Takin’ Care of Business” has been transformed to “Baking Carrot Biscuits” and the Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams are Made of This” has become “Sweet Dreams are Made of Cheese.”

My dairy farmer dad would have liked that one.

The most humorous is from “Can’t Help Myself” by the Four Tops.  As if the actual lyrics don’t boast enough calories, some food lovers try to change “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch” to “Sugar Fried Honey Butts.”   They’re the ones (like me) who line up to get fry bread at the town’s celebration every summer.

In doing my research, I found a new song for my own household.  Seeing that my husband’s part Asian and I’m part German, I’m going to start singing Billy Joel’s song a different way.  Instead of “You may be right, I may be crazy,” I’m going to use the mondegreen, “You made the rice, I made the gravy.”

When I read some of the misinterpreted lyrics online, I began questioning people’s view on relationships.  Juice Newton’s “Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby” became “Just brush my teeth before you leave me, baby.”  Now that’s a weird visual, right along with the guy who heard Roy Orbison’s, “Pretty woman, won’t you look my way” as “Pretty woman, won’t you lick my leg.”  Weirdo.

Then there are those out looking for imperfect women.  Like the people who hear the Beatles’ “The girl with kaleidoscope eyes” as “The girl with colitis goes by.”  Or the ones who turn The Monkees’ “Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer” into “Then I saw her face, now I’m gonna leave her.”

On the other hand, some view women as super-human.  For example, what were listeners thinking when they turned Kenny Rodgers lyrics of “You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille… four hungry children and a crop in the field” to four hundred children?  It makes me not want to sit down just thinking about it.

When I read that some had sung the Beatles “She’s Got a Ticket to Ride” as “She’s Got a Chicken to Ride”,  it again brought me back to little Olivia.

Her family recently got four chickens.  I asked her 11-year-old sister what she had named hers, and she exclaimed, “Well, my chicken’s white.  So I named it White Trash.”  I asked Olivia what she had named her chicken, and she simply answered, “Fred.”  Later she would rename it Broccoli because, she informed me, “It likes green things.”

Feliz Navidad, everyone.  And, for Pete’s Sake, let Mommy out.  Or at least grease her up. 

Turkey Troubles

Thanksgiving has always been a wonderful holiday for me.  Even the ones when-- with three small children born within 3 ½ years of each other—my military husband was deployed to some foreign country and I was too tired to cook.  Those were the Thanksgivings when I’d bundle the children up and head to a one-stop-buffet-pleases-every-appetite restaurant like Country Buffet or Golden Corral.  I’d be a tacky mom and place a holiday-sporting centerpiece in the middle of the table to make it feel like home.

With my dad being an only child, my childhood Thanksgivings were always spent with my mom’s side of the family.  This was a very good thing, since there was always action (there were 29 cousins, after all) and all of my relatives could cook and bake like female Emeril Lagasses and French pastry chefs.  Not bad for a bunch of Germans.

As for other Thanksgivings, I distinctively remember spending one with my husband’s brother and his wife in the L.A. area.  My sister-in-law realized that her very frozen turkey which should have already been thawing for a couple of days wasn’t going to fit in the fridge.  Rather than place it in cold water like I suggested, she decided to put it outside in the back yard to thaw after the rest of us had retired for the night.  No one would know any better, she reasoned.  

The next morning she awoke to find the entire turkey mauled and shredded across the entire yard. Whether it was a coyote or a dog, we’ll never know.  What I do know is that we ended up having spaghetti for Thanksgiving.

One of my favorite Thanksgivings as an adult happened when we were newly married.  Since we couldn’t be with family, we decided to invite one of my husband’s high school best friends and a single female soldier over for a home-cooked meal.

A few days before the dinner, the soldier called to say her mom would be able to fly in to visit.  She asked if she could bring her to dinner, which pleased us.

The day arrived and, in my husband’s typical fashion, each person during the course of the meal had to answer a question that had been strategically placed where they were sitting. 

The soldier had been asked what she was most thankful for and, with her mom in town, found it quick and easy to answer, “Family.”

The mother was then asked to tell us about one of her most memorable Thanksgivings.  Her story was one that I have never forgotten, even though it has been almost 25 years!

She told of being a young Army Captain’s wife.  She described how the officers’ wives had been asked to roast the turkeys for the enlisted soldiers’ Thanksgiving gathering.  The mess hall was going to provide all of the pies and fixings, but thought it would be a nice touch to have the officers carve the birds and serve it to the soldiers.

Right when we were all ahhing and oohing and visualizing the wonderful occasion, the story took a turn for the worse. 

 

She described how it was the first time she had ever roasted a turkey.  She was standing beside her husband as he was carving and serving, when suddenly he began to pull newspaper from the bird’s innards. We remembered how giblets weren’t always packaged in plastic, and began hysterically laughing. 

 

The soldiers lined up to be served her turkey started slowly moving over to other lines.  One could only imagine how mortified she was, but somehow she was laughing to the point of tears now.

Our dinner would end fabulously.  The high school friend had become an English teacher, so his question asked what his favorite poem was and whether he could quote it.  He began to quote Robert Frost’s “The Road Less Traveled.” 

He began, “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood…”

To our surprise and delight our other guests began to join in… “and sorry I could not travel both…”  

We had no idea that the soldier’s dad was a big poetry buff and that he would insist that his wife and children memorize poems during their dinner times together.  The joy on everyone’s face at the table was priceless.

Four stanzas of the poem later, the three of them ended: 

“…Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”

I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving no matter where you celebrate, who you celebrate it with, what you end up eating, or what humiliating things happen!     Trust me, someday you’ll look back and smile at your turkey troubles.

Spook House

Let it be known that the girls in my class were very tight.  There were only 16 of us out of our unusually small class of 39.  The peachy thing about this was the fact that, if each of us had a slumber party twice during the school year, we basically could have a sleepover at someone’s house every Friday night.  

We, you see, were very good at math.  

I know that what happens at a slumber party should stay at a slumber party.  This time of year, though, finds me reminiscing about our over-nighters.  This is undoubtedly because one of our favorite activities was to build spook houses for one another.  

Sometimes the host-mom would help.  She’d cover our eyes with a long white cotton dish towel and have us feel “eyeballs” (peeled grapes), “intestines” (cooked spaghetti), and “brains” (one of the more brilliant uses for Jello.)

But usually we were left to ourselves and would methodically divide ourselves into two teams so that each of us could go through the others’ haunted house.  This usually took close to the whole evening, so the moms probably loved the idea.

Sometimes our brain-storming ideas went as smooth as silk and other times they went as well as trying to pick gravel out of a skinned knee!!!  

On one occasion someone came up with the idea to place a men’s black dress sock over the basement light bulb in order to dim the room.  Suddenly there was smoke…then a flame…then a bunch of panicked girls.  

I never said we were good at Science or Logic.

At another slumber party we spent the night without parents in a trailer house.  Out in the country boondocks, the trailer in and of itself became a spook house. A couple of male classmates knew where we were spending the night and kept shutting off the fuse box.  This, for a bunch of middle schoolers, is right up there with the thriller Friday the 13^th.

And then there was the spook house that took place in my own basement.  It was back in the 1970’s when all of us were hip and donning the lovely elephant-bottom jeans.  You will soon discover why this is noteworthy.

Even though that house has been taken down, I can still see the basement as if it were yesterday.  It was a bit dark and dank, and it was a perfect place for our idea.  We had decided to string a piece of yarn throughout the basement.  It was waist-height and the victim going through our creation would merely have to follow it to encounter the unknown.  

Predictably, we had someone tickling legs at one point and making spine-tingling noises at another.  Throughout the entire spook house, the adventurer would encounter unfamiliar objects brushing her face or find herself knocking into or tripping over something.

We had it planned out perfectly, except for one small detail.  We hadn’t counted on someone yanking the string in fear.

We had set a trap. Ironically, it was a small pink toy teapot made of plastic that would begin the havoc.  It was filled with water and hung at head-height of those walking through the haunted house.  The intention was to have them bump the teapot, causing water to splash on them.

The trap worked.  It worked too well, according to Kim.  She bumped the hanging trap, it spilled water on her head as planned, and—in a fight or flight reaction—she yanked the string that had been guiding her.

To this very day, no one will fess up as to being the one who had tied the string to something on the laundry shelf… the something that would change our dragging elephant-bottom pants forever.

It was a gallon-size bottle of Hilex bleach.

In the split second it took to yank a string, the bottle had fallen, hit the concrete floor, lost its cap, and turned what we thought was a good spook house into a very memorable one!

We gasped for air and clamored to find any light switch.  We clawed our way through a room adorned with strings, and traps, and bewildered almost-teenage girls. 

Mom smelled the intoxicating fumes from the next story up, and came to rescue the clan.  She was horrified to find over a dozen girls with their favorite faddish jeans bleached white up to the knees.  The large bell bottoms had virtually wicked the Hilex half-way up all of our pant legs.

To this very day, Brenda believes all of us that attended that party have remained impeccably healthy.  We killed every possible bad germ in our lungs and lived to tell about it. 

After that night, we became a bit more savvy and discerning as to how we constructed our spook houses.  In other words, we became better at learning from History.

And to this day, Kim declares that she is not responsible for the catastrophe.  She only pulled the string. 

And, being as good at math as we are, we know 1/16 of the party goers are really to blame.

All Because of a Wood Tick

Let me just say that wood ticks can be good for something.  Who would have known.

This, once again, is an odd—but very true—story.  It began as I was laughing out loud to myself in the grocery store line.  I figured I better explain to the checkout lady why I was chuckling.  Surely I wouldn’t want her to think I was nutso.

I began explaining in detail the time my brother had plucked a wood tick off of himself in bed a few years back, and—rather than kill or flush the critter—he had flicked it as far away from himself as he could.  Or so he thought.

The next morning he woke up to find it fixed and engorged between the eyes of his grumpy now ex-wife.  By now, of course, the two of us were having a laugh-fest between ourselves.  

Little did we know there was a third participant behind me in line.  Between snorts and laughs, she blurted, “Well you must be from the Midwest!  I don’t hear people talk about wood ticks around here.”  

She was perfectly right.  Coloradoans are more worried about deer ticks, recluse spiders, and a rare rattlesnake bite.

In my best Minnesota accent I stood erect and said, “Yup…you betcha!  I graduated from Hector, Minnesota…class of 1980!” 

She burst into hysterics and said, “You’re kidding me!  My dad—Neil Macheledt-- graduated from Buffalo Lake High School!  In fact, my mother (Wendla) was buried in the cemetery there in 2005.”  

For those of you who struggle with geography like I do, the two towns are a mere five miles apart.

After we had both checked out, we stepped to the side.  

   

“My mom graduated from Buffalo Lake.  She was a Buboltz,” I added.

“Oh, my gosh!  My grandparents—Alvin and Arvilla Macheledt-- sold their farm south of town to a Buboltz.”

This is when cell phones come in handy.  I called my mother.

As Jean and I pried for information, we discovered that the farm had been sold to Virgil and Judy Buboltz.  Mom kept interjecting how nice Jean’s dad and aunt (also Jean) were and, because of this, how I should not hestitate to become friends with her.

The story was to become even more entertainingly bizarre!  As Jean and I talked about how we both had sons that were seniors at Fort Collins High School, I received a call back from Mom.  She had talked to Aunt Eunice who knew even more information.

Come to find out, Jean’s grandpa Alvin had dated my grandma LuNita in high school.  Grandpa Buboltz  loved to tease Grandma by often telling the story of Alvin and her.  They had pulled the horses off on the curves between Stewart and Gibbon.  Everyone who has driven the Gibbon and Stewart road knows those curves.

Grandpa was even recorded on tape jesting, “The grass never grew there and the snow never melted there after that.”  He would joke with Grandma and ask what exactly they had done on that spot to cause this phenomenon.

She would just say with a grin, “You know how kids are in the buggy.”

We would later discover that my uncle and godfather Lloyd Buboltz would voluntarily sign up for the Navy with Jean’s dad.  They were close friends in high school.

Just remember some important tidbits. Truth is stranger than fiction.  It’s O.K. to laugh to yourself in the grocery line as long as you explain yourself.  For heaven’s sake, don’t let your teen age kids take off in a buggy.   And—believe it or not—wood ticks actually can be good for something.